He took another hit on his cigarette, hazel eyes anchored on Lloyd. "But if you did it…if that was you sneaking around killing those kids…then I won't shame my wife by letting her know. I won't have kin of mine doing evil like that."
"I…"
"Lloyd, it turns out you did it, you gonna be what they call a fugitive. Only they never gonna catch you, understand?"
"You mean…I'm going to run away?"
"No. You did this thing, you not running any farther than this basement."
27
THE BOY slumped forward, covering his face with his hands. Shoulder blades bowed like broken bird's wings, dry-crying, chest in spasm. But he didn't say a word.
I watched him for a minute. Virgil was granite. I knew he'd kill if he had to— that's how he came to prison. And I knew his word was good.
I looked up. Caught his eye. "Virgil, I'm beat. Just got in from the Coast. This interrogation, it's going to take a long time. How about if I catch some sleep, talk to Lloyd when I get up?"
He got it. "Whatever you say, brother. I could use some sleep myself. We got all the time in the world. Take the first bunk, the one over on the left."
I got up, walked over to the cot. Folded my jacket into a pillow, lay back, closed my eyes.
Virgil smoked another cigarette. "Lloyd," he said, "I need to take a shower before I sack out. I'll talk to you later."
I heard the rush of the shower. Heard the kid get up, light himself a smoke. Heard the hubcap rattle on the cement floor as he ground it out. I rasped a breath through my nose. As many times as the nose had been broken, it was perfect for faking a snore. Virgil took his time, giving the boy every chance to bolt. He didn't go for it. By the time Virgil came back inside, I'd heard the kid's cot creak.
Dead quiet. You could hear crickets chirp, a car pass on the highway. The summer heat didn't penetrate the basement. Faint whiff of diesel fuel on the air.
It was worth the shot. If the kid tried to get out while we were asleep, we'd know.
But if he didn't run, we'd know nothing. Sniper-blasting unsuspecting kids in a parked car wasn't the same as trying to get past Virgil in the dark.
28
I LET THE past play on the blank screen of my mind, regulating my breathing, focusing. Getting to the center. Virgil had called the right number— I knew how to do it.
A long time ago, I had this fool dream of being a private eye, working off the books. This young lawyer reached out for me through Davidson. I met them both in the parking lot near the Brooklyn Criminal Court. Davidson made the introductions. Vouched for me. He let the young lawyer speak for himself.
"I represent Roger B. Haynes." Like I should have heard of the guy.
"Eighteen-B," Davidson interrupted. Telling me the young lawyer was assigned to the case, not privately retained. Any money for me was coming out of his pocket.
"He was arrested for the rape of a little girl. The rape took place right near the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. In broad daylight. The girl ID'd him in a lineup. There's plenty of medicals to prove she'd been raped, but nothing to connect Haynes to it."
"SODDI?" I asked him. Some Other Dude Did it.
"That's what he says," Davidson growled.
"It's true," the kid said. "Haynes was in New Hampshire when it happened. At a flea market. He was buying stock for his store. A dozen people saw him. There's no way he could have driven back in time to commit the rape."
"So what d'you need me for?"
The young lawyer tilted his head at Davidson. "He says you know these people…child molesters and all. I thought…maybe you could ask around…maybe there's one of them working that area."
I shrugged.
"He's got priors," Davidson said.
"For what?" I asked the young lawyer.
"The same thing. But that was years ago. He did his time. He's even off parole. And he's been discharged from therapy."
"Cured, huh?"
"Yeah, cured. You think it's impossible? Would you want to be arrested every time the cops had a hijacking case open?"
Davidson chuckled. "He's got you, Burke."
"He's got a baby-raper."
"You mean you won't help?"
"What do I give a flying fuck if some skinner falls for something he didn't do? Probably didn't pull enough time on his first bit anyway."
Davidson lit his cigar. "It wouldn't shake me up if he went down either. But if he didn't do this one, it means the guy who did, he's got a free pass."
I thought it through. "You got any money?" I asked the young lawyer.
"I could go five hundred."
"For that, I'll talk to your guy. You walk me in there, tell them I'm your assistant or something. I'll talk to him. He's telling the truth, I'll look around for you."
"How will you know?"
"I'll know," I assured him.
He looked at Davidson. The husky man nodded.
"Okay," the kid said. "When can you go?"
"When can you pay?"
"I'll write you a check right now."
Davidson thought that was almost as funny as I did.
29
I LOOKED MORE like a lawyer than the kid did when I met him the next morning on the steps of the Brooklyn House of Detention. The guards let us pass without a question. Getting into jail is always easy.
They brought him down to the Attorneys' Conference Room. He was medium height, nice-looking in an undistinctive way. Powerfully built, well-defined upper body in a white T-shirt. Shook hands firmly, looked me deep in the eye, moving his lips to make sure he got my name right.
"Rodriguez, huh?" He smiled. "You don't look Puerto Rican."
"You don't look like a baby-raper," I said, lighting a cigarette, flicking a glance at his face over my hands cupped around the wooden match.
His expression didn't change, no color flashed on his cheeks. Calm inside himself. He was used to this— a therapy veteran.
The young lawyer pulled his chair away from the table, sat back in a corner, his yellow legal pad open on his lap. My play.
I worked the perimeter, tapping softly at the corners. The way you crack a pane of glass during a burglary— the quieter you go in, the easier you go out.
"You were up in New Hampshire when it happened?"
"Yes. Buying stock for my store at the flea markets."
"What kind of store do you have?"
"I call it Inexplik. Not really antiques, anything people collect. Glass bottles, baseball cards, first editions, dolls, knives, Hummel figurines, commemorative plates, proof sets…like that."
"You have anything special in mind you were looking for when you were up there?"
"Well, there's always things you look for. I mean, I know what my regular customers want and all. Like Barbie dolls…you can always sell them. But you have to keep your eyes open, spot hot items before people know what they're worth. Like those plastic compacts women used to carry around in the '50s. The kind with mirrors on the inside? They come in all shapes and colors. Right now, you can get them for a song, but they're going to be very, very collectible soon."
He folded his hands in front of him on the desk. The nails were bitten to the quick, ragged skin around the sides. He saw where I was looking, folded his hands across his chest.
"Can you still buy handguns up there?" I asked.
"I guess so. I mean, they have them right on the tables. But they're against the law in New York. I wouldn't mess with them. Besides, gun collectors are just a different breed from the people I deal with."
He was emphasizing the wrong words, arching an eyebrow when he did— a squid throwing out ink.
"You're not gay." My voice was flat— it wasn't a question.